Black Ships (13 page)

At midmorning the oil lamps were not lit and the torches had burned down to ash, great streaks of soot staining the carved columns. I went up the middle of the hall. My footsteps echoed in the vastness.

The effigy was carved of fine stone and stood nearly twice a woman’s height, with painted staring eyes looking toward the sea. Her arms were raised stiffly, one holding a sistrum and the other a sheaf of grain, for in Byblos She reigns over more than the sea. A painted sacred snake curled around the bottom of Her skirt, as stiff and as lifeless as She was. There was power here, but it did not rest in the statue.

I knelt at Her feet and waited.

Nothing happened. I heard the sound of footsteps coming and going, the sound like the waves of the marketplace outside. And nothing more. If She had words for me, I did not hear them.

After a time I stood up and made my way down the left side of the room. The walls of the temple were courses of stone to just above my head, then planked with cedar above. The roof beams were cedar as well, and the high ceiling.

The stone walls were covered with carving. Some of them were the scratch marks that the people of this coast use to convey words, but I could not read them. She Who Was Pythia had thought I had no need to read or write the language of the isles, and this was infinitely more complex and difficult, with marks that looked so similar it would take practice to tell them apart. I could see a pattern, but only that—marks repeated frequently that must be common words in the language of Byblos, a language I did not speak. Without the words, the pictures above were pretty and nothing more.

I had turned to go when I heard a voice I knew.

“Wait a moment longer,” Xandros said. “Please.”

I thought he had spoken to me until I turned. In the shadow of the column across the way, almost beneath Her effigy, Xandros stood with his back to me.

“I can’t,” she said. She drew her hand away, and I saw her as she stepped into the sun that came in through the doors. She was fifteen or so, the first blush of womanhood, small breasted and slim. Her hair fell in oiled curls halfway down her back, her arms were banded in bracelets, and the cascading ruffles of her skirts were embroidered with scarlet and gold. Her skin was warm ivory, her lips and nipples stained red. She was very beautiful.

“One more moment?” he asked.

She hesitated, her feathered brows drawn together. “Only a moment,” she said, and stepped toward him, her arms going up to wreath about his neck, her pale skin against his black hair. He kissed her, and I should have looked away. I should not have watched the way his mouth moved on hers, tender and demanding, the way his hand caressed the curve at the small of her back. But I could not look away, even though my heart rose in my throat.

“Can I see you?” he asked, pulling back, their noses almost touching, hers fair and straight, his darkened by sun. “Later?”

“Yes,” she said. “Later. Again. I promise.” I heard the slap of her gilded sandals on the stone as she hurried away.

He had not seen me in the shadow of the column. I waited until he had left.

With my twisted leg and dusty black robes I looked like a slave doing the shopping. And why shouldn’t I? Was I not born a slave? What should it matter to me what Xandros did? He was not my kinsman or my lover. He was scarcely my friend. He was simply the captain of the ship that fate had put me upon.

I walked back to the harbor, and a towering fury was on me. Why should I care? Didn’t I know better? What cause had I to expect that Xandros was not like all the other sailors, who rutted and took their pleasure in ports with no thought of tomorrow? Why shouldn’t he be like all other men, who seek nothing but beauty?

Well, I have little of that,
I thought as I stalked through the doors of the house, black cloak billowing behind me.
Little enough. Oh, enough to terrify and bring men to their knees from the fear of me. Enough to reach for them in the end with Her white hands.

I will go apart from the dance,
I had promised,
and none shall call me beloved.

I lay down upon my pallet on the floor and stared at the ceiling dry-eyed, and it came to me that I could take this with bitterness, or not. I could imagine that Xandros had betrayed me, when he had promised me nothing, when there was nothing but friendly words between us. Or I could know that it was my fate, not his, that intervened here. I was the one who had promised to go apart from the dance, to need no love but Hers.

I had spoken no word to him, nor he to me. He did not know that I had seen him at his tryst. And I would never speak of it.

I rolled over on my pallet and buried my face in my robe. No, I would not speak. I would not let this poison all friendship between us. After all, I had always known that I would be alone.

T
HE DAYS OF WINTER
passed. Kos seemed satisfied that the work on the ships was well done. But peace could not last. When the men of many nations are confined in port together, words are spoken, insults exchanged. Moreover, I knew Neoptolemos, and I should have known that he would not heed Prince Hiram’s warnings forever, or at least that he should get around them by treachery.

I was awakened by shouts and the sounds of men running, and dashed into the courtyard in time to see the sturdy gate opening, Amynter with his sword in hand at the door. Jamarados was shouting, and in the light of a single torch I saw them coming in through the gate. Kos had blood on his long knife, and he was half dragging Neas. Blood stained Neas’ tunic and he clasped his side while it dripped onto the ground.

“What happened?” Amynter demanded.

“Close the gate,” Jamarados ordered. “And put out those torches. Put men on the walls with bows.” He turned and shouted again. “Put out the torches, I say! Our archers will be backlit!”

Men leaped onto the walls. The one nearest me was Bai, who grimaced as he climbed but scrambled up nonetheless.

I ran to Neas, calling for Lide, the woman with the most healing skill. She came running. I saw now that there were others hurt, though none so much.

“What happened?” I asked Jamarados.

“We were coming back from the ships when some men fell upon us in the dark,” he said. Jamarados grimaced. “Neoptolemos.”

“Where is Xandros?” I said.

“He wasn’t with us,” he said. “He was at the temple.” Jamarados looked up at the walls. “We’ll keep careful watch, but I don’t really think they’ll follow us back. Assaulting this place would cost them men and bring Prince Hiram down upon them for breaking the peace. As it is, we can’t prove that Neoptolemos had anything to do with it. It might have been common thieves.”

“Common thieves attack a group of armed men?” I said incredulously.

Jamarados shrugged. “They were Achaian. But we can’t prove it. And they went for Neas first.”

I followed Lide and Kos into Neas’ room. They had his tunic off, and I could see the great bloody gash in his side.

“Water,” Lide said. “Clean water fresh drawn, and cloth. Now.” Kos hastened to do her bidding.

I went to the door and tried to keep out the dozen or so people who all wanted to crowd in. “Prince Aeneas is hurt,” I said. “Let Lide tend him, please.”

“Is he dead?” one man asked.

“No,” I said, moving aside a little so he could see Neas propped up with Lide cleaning the wound, knowing that if I did not let him see the rumor would spread. “He’s hurt; now give him peace.”

They did eventually begin to disperse, reassured each and every one by me. When there were no others left I went back inside. Lide was wringing out a bloody cloth, and the bowl of water was all blood. Neas lay quiet, white and drawn, bandages wrapped around his middle.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Lide said quietly, “but as near as I can tell it sliced skin and muscle and turned on his last rib. It didn’t go in his stomach or bowels. Prince Aeneas was very lucky.” A stomach wound is almost always fatal, though it may take many days to die.

“He’s feverish and weak, but if it clears he should be up and about in a week or so,” she said. “I’ll watch over him tonight. He needs sleep and rest now.”

I left him with her. I walked back into the courtyard, where men still watched upon the walls. In the corridor I saw a small bundle. I thought someone had dropped something until I realized it was a child.

Wilos looked up with eyes as blue as Neas’. “Is my father dead?” he asked very quietly.

I knelt beside him. In all the fuss he had been entirely forgotten. “No,” I said. “Your father will be fine. He was hurt in the fight, but he’s sleeping now. When he wakes up you can come and talk to him.”

Wilos bit his lower lip and said nothing. I picked him up and slung him on my hip. He was small and light for a child nearly five. “Come, then,” I said. “We’ll go see him now.”

We went in, and Lide stood up. “Just a moment for Prince Wilos,” I said, and put him down beside the bed. There was a glint of bronze at Neas’ throat, one of the marketplace charms from the Great Temple. “You see?” I said to Wilos. “He’s sleeping.”

Wilos reached out and touched his hand. “Papa?”

Neas’ eyes flickered. “Wilos? I’m fine, son.” He opened his eyes. “I’ll be fine soon.”

Wilos worked his mouth, but no sound came out.

“I’m not going to die,” Neas said. “I’m going to sleep because it’s nighttime. Lide is going to put you to bed, and you’re going to sleep too.”

I looked across at Lide. “I’ll stay with him.”

“Come, Prince Wilos,” she said. “It’s long past your bedtime. Let’s go back to bed now.”

They went out and Neas closed his eyes. “That was well done,” he said.

“Sleep, Neas,” I said. “Just rest. I will stay.”

I
T WAS THE COLD HOUR
before dawn, when even in a great city it grows still. No dogs barked, and the city was silent. I dozed in the chair beside Neas’ bed. The lamp burned low. The only sound was his breath, and I watched the rise and fall of his chest. His fever was no better and no worse. I did not feel my Lady’s presence at all. Which under the circumstances was a relief. If his fever left him, he would live.

With each breath the sword amulet rose and fell on his chest, the bronze glinting in the lamplight. I dozed and woke with a start.

Someone had come in without my hearing. He sat in the chair behind the door, his hair bleached by the sun, a young man with a tired face. He wore plain stained leathers, and I would have mistaken him for a man of Byblos if not for the shadow of folded wings.

“Who are You?” I asked, for I have seen the gods before.

“You aren’t afraid,” he said with a half smile.

“Should I be?” I asked. “I serve the Lady of the Dead and rest under Her protection.”

“Most people fear the gods,” he said.

“Most do,” I agreed. “But I fear men, and what they do.”

He smiled again. “You’re brave. I like that. I come only for the brave.”

I looked down at Neas sleeping, the sword at his throat. I kept my voice steady. “Why are You here? Have You come for him, then?”

“Not in the way you mean,” he said. “I am not Death.”

“I know that,” I said.

“It was I who turned the knife from him,” he said, “so that it scored along his side. If I had not shouted he would not have turned, and it would have taken him in his kidney. And then he would have died.”

I looked down at Neas’ face and kept my eyes unblinking. “Why did You do that?” I asked. “Neas is not of Your people.”

He almost shrugged. His shoulders didn’t move, but His wings shifted restlessly. “He’s a brave man. And he wears My sword.”

“Xandros bought it for him in the temple quarter,” I said. “He said it was for luck.”

“Well, it’s brought him luck, then.” He smiled a little sheepishly.

“Who are You?” I asked again.

“I am Mik-el, one of the warriors who waits upon Baal.”

I shook my head. I was used to Her awesome majesty, mysterious and beyond understanding. “You are not like any god I have ever met.”

“I’m a very young god,” he said, and this time he did shrug.

“Gods can be young? There can be new gods?”

“There could hardly be gods of war before there were warriors,” he said. “Or gods of grain and harvest before men learned to plant seeds and till the soil. There was a time before that, not so long ago.”

“But my Lady...” I said.

“Your Lady is old,” he said. “She was old when the first man looked up from where he knelt in the long grass and wondered why his brother had fallen and would run no more, when the first woman wrapped her dead child and placed her in the earth like a womb. She was old when I was born.”

“How were You born?” I asked.

Mik-el’s wings shifted, as though he settled in his chair. His eyes were far away. “I’m not entirely certain. I know what I seem to remember. But I’m not sure whether it is true, or if it happened to Me, or to some other I’ve known.”

“Tell me,” I said. “If You will. The night is long.”

He looked at Neas sleeping. “It is long,” he said, and shrugged. “Why not, then?”

“Once, long ago along a great river, there was a young man who killed a hippopotamus that was mad, that killed men and toppled boats. He killed the beast in the reeds along the river. His people were glad and made him chief over them. For many years he led them, and they grew in number. His children grew strong and his people prospered. But then there was a crocodile. It was twice the length of a man. At first it ate their goats and then it ate their children. People went to the chief and said, ‘When you were young you killed the mighty hippopotamus. Go now and kill this crocodile that eats our children!’ So the chief went with some other men, and they found the place where the crocodile was, and it was twice the length of a man, with teeth longer than a man’s hand. And there was a battle in the mud of the riverbank, and the crocodile lunged and with one great blow bit off the chief’s foot. With his last strength the chief drove his spear into the beast’s brain, and it died. His life blood pumped out on the riverbank. The people were delivered from the crocodile, but their chief was dead.”